Waiting in the Lobby
by AlienZombies
Summary: First thing: Arthur is aware that he's inadvertently included paisley in most of the team's outfits. ARTHUR/EAMES


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**Waiting in the Lobby**

First thing: Arthur is aware that he's inadvertently included paisley in most of the team's outfits. It's understandable that, since this dream is his, the things over which he has direct control would reflect his preferences – like the sleek architecture, the distinct lack of loud colors. Yusuf's dream involved far too much leather and dark corners for Arthur's liking, so maybe this is his subconscious way of rebelling. He isn't sure. Either way, for all of the guff Arthur tends to give Eames for the way his clothes fit, Eames gives it right back when he spots the ridiculous pattern on his collar. "Really, old man?" he snarks, and Arthur wants to knock him upside the head.

His mother's drapes were burnt orange and paisley, a throwback from the 70's like everything in her life, as if she was trying to remind herself of the golden times before Arthur was born into it, trying to scrape up her lasts bits of joy and dignity in the form of ugly furniture, and so he is sorry for being such a burden upon her, for looking so very much like his father.

If he'd had his way, he wouldn't have been born. It would have saved them both a lot of trouble.

But now isn't the time to sit and ponder the color of those old, musty, sun-bleached drapes, the tired little pot of petunias struggling to grow between them, the rain striking the window as Arthur stares out into the endless dusty streets and half-harvested wheat and wonders what better life there must be out there for a young boy like him, a young boy with a piece of him too big for a town so small.

Now's not the time to think of that. Ariadne is watching him worriedly from the corner of her eye, having asked him a question that he did not hear; this is too important.

Second thing: Here comes Eames, and Arthur can't help but smile. That chills him to the bone. Part of him smiles because he's seen Eames in that body before, seen Eames slither across Arthur's skin in that body. Mostly he smiles because this is a complete forgery – complete, that is, in having no cracks. The real Eames underneath that guise is not wearing heels, does not have hair down to his back, and for Fischer this is not a problem. His mind automatically projects and perceives the weight, the walk for Eames. But Eames doesn't need that here. He can strut like a woman with perfection, any time he wants. Most men can't harness that, even good forgers; they play women like flamboyant men in fabulous drag. But not Eames. Perhaps it is because he is the best in his field, better than anyone Arthur has ever worked with. Perhaps that's because Eames is the gayest thing Arthur has ever laid eyes on.

It occurs to him that Ariadne, who is for all the world trying to appear like a stiff businesswoman despite her wide-eyed wonderment, does not know that the woman click-clacking by is Eames. He indulges his urge to eye the blond up until she is out of sight (they make eye contact for just a fraction of a second, and it sends heat raging through Arthur's veins, fast and slick and burning like hot oil, the electric snap at the tips of his fingers), and then does not point it out. It's not as if she needs to know, and it feels good to have such a little private enjoyment.

For the next few minutes, Ariadne and Arthur make small talk. Well, as small as they can get at the moment, with their lives in the balance, with Cobb's subconscious broken loose from its chains, slobbering and rabid and frightened by the large world it has stumbled upon. All of this depends on everything going off without a hitch, and for some reason it tickles Arthur half to death. Maybe he is starting to lose it, after all; there are only so many things that can go _wrong_ in the dream world before one's brain turns to mush, but they've gotten out of worse spots. It also gets him that clearly, Ariadne has no fucking idea what's going on.

Not that it's her fault. It isn't Ariadne's job to know what the plan is on the hotel level, only that she is to stick with Arthur so that he can protect her. For some reason, she has become his shadow, and he's been assigned to cast her. This doesn't bother him as much as it should. He's queer, crowding a 4.5 on the Kinsey scale, but his interest in her is zero. She reminds him too much of his aunt.

Now there is a faint pull in the lower center his belly as gravity shifts. It isn't long before a new kind of murmur starts, and the projections begin to stare. The feeling still makes the hairs on Arthur's neck stand on end. Ariadne's eyes go wide and she tries hard to appear like she doesn't care, but how doesn't she realize how obvious she is? "What's happening?" she asks, and Arthur starts to think.

Once, two years ago, they were in Eames' brain for a test run. Well, for Cobb it was a test run. For Arthur, it was a chance to push Eames as far as he possibly could before the entire thing fell down on them. It was all quantitative data, of course, nothing so beneath him as sophomoric pranks (so Eames would claim, but he was just embarrassed that he lost control). Arthur had been changing the street lights for the better part of an hour, waiting for Cobb to get down sorting out whatever sort of dreadful maze Eames had constructed for the sake of it, the projections getting more and more cautious about them. And Eames had laughed, warned Arthur, "don't put your greedy little hands where they don't belong" and Arthur hadn't paid mind, turning all of the buildings pink on a whim. That was when the projections had begun to rough him up in earnest, and the more Arthur shoved them back, the more aggressive they got. "They don't really want to hurt you," Eames kept saying, pulling Arthur back again and again by his sleeve, until sweat beaded in his clammy hands, until his jaw ached from clenching. "Here, quickly," Eames had said, "let's give Cobb a moment." Just like that, he had said, "Here, quickly," and had stepped right into an open-mouthed kiss.

It wasn't the first time, no, it hadn't been the first time that Arthur had felt those hard callused hands on his waist, that mouth against his own. It was still just as much of a shock, though, a physical jolt dragging the core of him away until his limbs were left shaky and weak, his hands clenched pointlessly against Eames' tweed jacket, lips slack. He remembered the sensation of breathing without air, more than anything else he had ever felt.

The projections had looked away, and Eames looked content and a little too pleased with himself. Although Arthur wasn't quite close enough to really feel it, the pinprick points of Eames' pupils gave away his arousal. Was it bad, that he could read that look so well, the faint flush to that now familiar face? Instead of smiling, instead of anything normal, Arthur instead shoved Eames back, called him an asshole and a drag queen and maybe a little of the light had gone out of Eames' eyes, his face had definitely turned suddenly pallid and waxy, his lips thinning out into an expressionless line. Had it all been a joke? The triumph singing beneath Arthur's skin certainly didn't feel like it, the dismissive flap of Eames' hand hadn't felt like it, the abrupt and collective roar of a thousand angry projections hadn't sounded like it, either. Cobb had touched something sensitive, and perhaps Arthur had, too, because once awake, tasting the phantom taste of coppery blood in the back of his throat, Eames had refused to look at him.

"Arthur?" Ariadne asks again, her brows pinching with concern. "What's going on?"

Arthur has to think fast, but when he turns to look into her face his mind won't move forward.

All he can think about is how it worked before, and this mission is just too important to not take the chance, and Arthur has always been willing to take a little discomfort for the good of the team (because he has his priorities in order, he reminds himself always, and personal pleasure is last as it should be). And so he does it, about as unenthusiastically as he can manage because he know that every little motion is read by Ariadne in layers and layers, and that's okay because when she pulls away he can tell by the look in her eyes that she knows and is all right. Maybe she has always known, but now isn't the time to consider it as they both look around and see, with what they will later identify as the same icy feeling in both of their stomachs, that they are still being watched. Despite himself, Arthur has to smile, has to crack a little joke, because _of course_ it wouldn't work, it was ridiculous to think that it ever could, because Fischer's subconscious is not Eames' subconscious and it was a great farce, maybe he should have known all along. He's embarrassed because it was a stupid idea, had obviously been a stupid idea, but now Ariadne has that curtained look about her eyes as she tries to sort out what to do next, so maybe it was worth it to get her brain going.

It doesn't stop Arthur hating Eames for this. He's never been one to lay the blame, and he shoulders some of the credit even now, but the hate is uncontrollable. It's good that being once again submerged in the working environment has smoothed over the rough waters left by their last fight, but a bit of that bitterness remains because Arthur feeds it, stores up scraps from Eames' sarcasm that Arthur secretly loves and yet cannot stand. Even as he thinks it, he smiles, because it's as if it never happened at all, those hard words between them.

Third thing: Eames has always been a bit of worrywart, more so than he lets on for all of his nonchalance, he loathes for things to go wrong; and right now, it's painfully obvious to Arthur, and he can't help but feel a little bit in love.

In the hotel room, he sees Eames' face, the focused and shaded look that has come over him as he lays back. He doesn't need Arthur's help hooking up, but Arthur can't help but move in anyway, knowing that he won't be able to follow Eames down below, that this is where they part ways, and now they both know just what is at risk here. He can tell that Eames feels much of the same, in spite of his smiles, when he utters a passive little warning. Arthur wants to touch him, doesn't, not right now. To admit that something is at stake would be to admit too much, and so he jokes, because it _is_ funny (in a way that certainly is not sweet, no) that Eames is worried for his safety.

The last thing: When Eames closes his eyes and goes to sleep, Arthur's breath catches and then lets in.

- fin


End file.
